TROUBLE 3

by Kristina Weaver

  I’ve watched Air Crash Investigation. A lot.

  My phone dings, and I smile when I read Nat’s message telling me Fletcher’s got the green light and will be taking her out tonight. Go, matchmaking Han!

  I dial her number and glance back at a dark SUV that’s tailgating me.

  “Slow down, asshole,” I mutter just as Nat answers.

  “Nice. Should I be apologizing for something?”

  “No. Sorry. I’m driving, and there’s a road pig on my ass. So, date?”

  “Wait! You’re driving? He finally caved on the car?”

  “No. He hired me a car and insists on taking me to pick out Lord only knows what indestructible thing. He was supposed to shotgun my first drive, but he had to fly to Singapore, so I’m foot loose and fancy free tonight. So, date?” I hint again, keeping an eye on the SUV behind me.

  The guy’s on my ass in a big way, and I have no option but to speed up a little, even though it scares me to drive this fast.

  “Yeah, he called, and I laid it all out for him. Nothing glitzy or…”

  I stop listening for a second when the SUV comes closer, and curse, halting her enthusiasm.

  “God, this guy,” I mutter.

  It’s while I’m glancing back that a truck cuts in front of me. I swerve and tap the brake lightly. When nothing happens I slam my foot down hard and gasp when it hits the floor, leaving me frighteningly aware that I have no brakes, a truck a few inches in front of me, and absolutely nowhere to go but into oncoming traffic.

  The last thing I hear as I smack head-on into the truck is Nat screaming and the sound of twisting metal as the car flips and starts rolling.

  Chapter Eleven

  I don’t wake slowly like I assumed I would, but burst back to consciousness with a frantic panic that steals the air from my lungs. My first thought is for the baby I’ve just learned I’m carrying, and I go to grab my stomach and shove a hand between my trapped legs.

  When it comes away dry and blood-free I sob and allow myself to look around. Twisted metal and glass fill my vision, along with the smell of gasoline.

  I’m trapped in the car, smashed up against the seat and the door, and my head is pounding so violently it takes me a while to realize I’m hanging upside down.

  “Han! Hannah! Jesus, what the hell is going on!”

  I hear frantic screams, Nat’s frantic screams all around me.

  “Nat.” It’s a choked whisper, a croak of pain, and I realize everything on me hurts, especially my right arm where it’s trapped between my body and the mangled door. “Call…Greg. Accident.”

  It’s all I get out before the black spots swirling in my vision become a pall of unconscious.

  *********************************************

  “I should never have let her drive, but she was so excited, and I didn’t… No, they said everything’s fine… Concussion and broken… Don’t tell her yet…”

  I’m swimming through fog, a thick soup that keeps dragging me under just when I think I’m finally reaching the surface. I’m not complaining, not when I feel no pain or fear, but every time I hear his voice it makes me fight harder to resurface.

  When I finally do I feel achy and groggy, and I open my eyes to see a golden head resting beside my thigh and a strong hand cupped around the fingers of my right hand.

  “Greg,” I moan, and he springs to life like a live wire, his sherry-colored eyes bloodshot and panicked before they land on me and freeze, tearing up.

  “You’re awake.”

  My hand is heavy when I try to lift it and swipe at the moisture rimming his eyes, and I look down to see a vivid white cast surrounding it from above my elbow all the way to my fingers.

  “No, no, lie still. It’s broken in two places but—”

  “Oh God, the…”

  My hands go to my stomach in a frenzy before he stills me with a kiss and a tired smile that shows just how worried he’s been.

  “You’re fine. The baby is fine,” he murmurs softly, his eyes glowing fiercely with a joy that steals my breath. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  I answer only after he helps me sit up and cradles my head as I sip at a glass of tepid water. It helps with the rawness in my throat but sets up a queasy swirling that tells me better than anything that the fetus is still in there.

  What? I just found out about the baby. I haven’t had a chance to name it yet. Plus, I like “fetus.” It has a certain ring to it that my dorky side can’t resist.

  “I was on the way home from the doctor when that…did they get that asshole in the SUV? He pushed me straight into the truck in front of me,” I growl, groaning when my head protests the volume.

  My words upset him, ruining the moment, and I wince guiltily when his face loses that glowing joy.

  “The police are pulling up the footage. They think one of the highway cameras may have caught the accident,” he says, and I can see just how upset he is when he pulls away and starts pacing.

  I kinda think this is how he stays in such great shape, because he hasn’t been to the gym once since we got married. Honestly, I don’t know where he’d find the time.

  “I want you to tell me exactly what happened, from the moment you left the doctor’s office. Exactly, Han,” he barks.

  I really don’t feel up to a replay of the accident, and I say so, leaning over to get the water cup. All I want to do right now is lie back and hope the jackhammer in my skull stops trying to realign my brain tissue.

  “Han, please.”

  “Fine. I got onto the highway and Nat — Chris, oh this is so goddamned confusing. Natalia texted me, so I called her, and no, Greg, the phone was on the speakers like you told me, so don’t even start yelling at me,” I warn. “But the whole time I kept seeing this idiot in a dark-colored SUV pushing me. I sped up a little because I was scared he was going to hit me.”

  “You should have skipped over.”

  “I was going to, when the truck swerved in front of me. I tapped the brake a little to avoid it, and that’s when the SUV sped up.”

  “After the truck cut you off?” he asks suspiciously, and I scowl.

  Swear to God, if he tries to go back on getting me a car because some bozo can’t drive properly, I’ll scream.

  “Yes. After. I couldn’t go anywhere but into oncoming traffic, and the brakes weren’t working right.”

  So I’d ended up hitting the truck and flipping the car. Shit, the rental company is not going to be pleased. I can guarantee there’s nothing much left of the little hatchback.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, I hit them as hard as I could. I figured him rear-ending me was a whole lot better than hitting a truck, but when I stood on the pedal it hit the floor like a limp noodle.”

  I want to state for the record that I’m not telling him how fast I was going when the brakes failed because I’m smart and I actually want a car of my own before my ninety-fifth birthday.

  Luckily he’s so fixated on the brake failure I’m saved from lying right to his face. He processes the information with a thoroughness that makes my head pound before nodding and shifting gears.

  “How are you feeling?”

  “Eh, better than dead. How are you? You look like shit,” I say as he lowers himself to sit beside me and strokes the tips of my fingers on my right hand.

  “I’m fine. You, on the other hand, the doctor said the seatbelt saved you. Good girl,” he murmurs, touching my belly gently.

  I roll my eyes, letting him know that the odds of me not wearing my seatbelt after the hour-long lecture he’d given about the damn thing, are and will ever be in his favor.

  “So when can I get out of this dump?”

  “Tomorrow morning,” he mutters, planting a gentle kiss on my head. “Have I told you how happy I am?”

  And so am I. Seeing his joy is infectious, the shove I need to make the maternal instincts rush forth.

  I do spend the rest of that day ‘resting’ while people stre
am in and out of my room. By the time morning rolls around I’m so inundated with flowers, cards, balloons, and stuffed animals it looks like a gift shop.

  One thing I do appreciate about what’s happened? I now appreciate every minute Greg is with me.

  Chapter Twelve

  “Hannah! For God’s sake, stop that.”

  I giggle at that groggy growl and keep licking at his erection, enjoying my first ever undirected exploration of his cock. When he snarls a curse and goes to pull me away, I give out a growl of my own and clamp down hard, using my teeth as a warning.

  It’s been two weeks since I bum-rushed a truck, and he hasn’t so much as touched me sexually. I’m tired of waiting for his nerves to calm.

  When he groans and grabs hold of my hair I open wider and pull his length deeper, using rapid flicks of my tongue to tease the thick vein running down the side.

  “Fuck. Darlin’, you have to stop.”

  But he doesn’t pull me away as he groans the words. Instead his hands push me a little closer while his hips thrust gently. I take my time with him, enjoying his taste, the gurgled sounds of pleasure, and the power that seizes me.

  When he’s tensing and crooning I bob my head faster and apply a stronger suction, swallowing as deeply as I can. That does the trick and I feel him come, shooting his seed down my throat in strong spurts that last long and leave him gasping and slumped into the mattress.

  I stop only when I feel his hands fall away and crawl up his body with a self-satisfied smirk and soothing kisses that rev me up in the worst way. By the time I reach his lips I’m grinding my clit into his thigh, unconsciously searching for relief.

  Pregnancy hormones have taken my lust to a new level of intensity, and the added stimulation of giving him a blow job doesn’t do a thing to cool me down.

  “You’re wet,” he purrs against my lips, grabbing my ass to grind me into the muscle of his thigh.

  “Hmm, I guess I must have enjoyed that a little too much,” I purr back, spearing my tongue into his mouth to share his salty flavor.

  He flips me onto my back with a growl and latches onto my breast, his eyes never leaving mine as he sucks and bites me to a writhing need.

  “You liked the power, I think, but I think I need to remind you who’s in charge here.”

  I moan when he releases my nipple with a pop and sits back on his haunches to look down at my exposed sex. A single finger strokes down from the valley between my breasts and stops directly on my clit, just resting there.

  “I think we should take this slow. Real slow.”

  “No.”

  I’m begging, and I don’t care, just as long as he gives me what I need and doesn’t spend hours torturing me with his wicked mouth.

  “Please, Greg. I ache.”

  That finger presses down the barest bit and starts a gentle, circular motion that has my hips grinding up, seeking a harder pressure. He’s so controlled I can’t stand it, and I’m considering giving myself an orgasm when he thrusts a finger into me and growls, losing all thought.

  “Jesus. You’re always so ready for me,” he snarls, pulling his finger out to line his cock up to my opening.

  He bottoms out on the first thrust and I scream my pleasure, pushing back into him with every thrust.

  “Oh God, you’re so beautiful.”

  I don’t quite agree, since I’ve seen my sex face, but I’m too lost in the sensation of him filling me, taking me and owning me, to do anything but fuck him back and reach for the orgasm pooling low in my belly.

  It strikes so fast I bow up and shriek, pulling him closer when the contractions start. I’m convulsing, pleading, screaming out my pleasure when he tenses above me and fills me, his own orgasms hitting so strongly that we’re a sweaty, fluid-slicked mess when it’s over.

  “I love you.”

  He grunts and rolls to his back, pulling me onto his chest for a kiss that curls my toes.

  “You’ve gotten what you want, minx. Now go back to sleep, my baby needs you strong.”

  What a lovable bastard, I think, snuggling down with a contented sigh.

  One of these days he’s going to slip and let those words out.

  ************************************

  “Oh, for the love of God. Really?”

  “Yes, really,” I answer, accepting the glass of ginger ale Lena hands me as she and Nat drop onto the sofa across from my seat and sip their own drinks.

  “What did Greg say when he found out?”

  “He went nuts, obviously. I swear, for such a controlled guy he has a major temper problem. Not that I blame him or anything. I mean, I was pissed when they pulled up the footage, but it’s pretty conclusive. It was definitely Farns.”

  So here’s the rundown. Remember my boss, Jordan, the guy I’d practically gotten fired and booted from a company that had been owned by his wife’s Uncle Yates?

  Yeah, turns out he owns and was driving that SUV. The cops had pulled up the camera footage, and wham bam, thank you ma’am, there he was, tailgating the heck out of me.

  I’d seen the footage and been horrified, partly at his actions and partly because my fear face is so weird. But the proof is there, and they’d arrested him soon after confirming that the un-plated SUV is his.

  He cracked like an egg when they’d questioned him, and admitted to wanting to scare me, sort of his revenge on Greg for taking over the agency and firing him.

  I feel almost sorry for the man. He’s looking at three years for reckless endangerment, and while I certainly blame him for what happened and can’t forgive what could have happened — like losing my little fetus — I forgive him. Greg, on the other hand, is so mad he’s violent every time the names Jordan or Farns is mentioned.

  I don’t like the guy, but nobody deserves to be left alone with my husband after that. Thank God he can’t get to him.

  He’d only been trying to scare me. It’s not his fault the brakes on the rental car had failed, something that’s made my husband furious enough to ruin them.

  One less car rental agency in the world won’t kill anyone, but I feel sorry for the guy who owns it. Greg is ruthless.

  “So then everything is back to usual. I was so scared when Greg told Taylor about the accident. They were acting like you were in imminent danger or something. And don’t even get me started on the non-visitation thing,” Lena mutters, still smarting from Greg’s rudeness the day I’d had the accident.

  They’d all rushed to the hospital, only to be turned away by my tyrannical husband. According to him, he wasn’t about to let anyone near me until he knew what had happened. I, of course, have told him what a paranoid psycho he is, and he’s conceded the point grudgingly.

  Lena’s still a little pissed, though, so she only visits when he’s away or at the office. Where I haven’t been since the accident.

  “Lena, the man has serious trust issues and a frightening need to control every aspect of his life. And mine. And apparently everyone who so much as breathes my way. Give him a break already. He’s apologized, and that’s as good as it gets with him.”

  “You call that an apology? He told me he had his reasons and I should understand!” she yells, and Natalia starts giggling so hard I can’t help but laugh too.

  “You know that’s Greg-speak for ‘sorry.’”

  “Stop being such a bitch, Lena. It’s done and dusted,” Nat mutters, changing the subject with a humph of irritation and a not so nice scowl directed at me.

  “Thanks a lot for setting me up with Gregory’s twin brother, Control Freak 2.0. I woke up this morning to his secretary informing me that a car would be at my disposal. When I tried to sneak out and run to the subway, my phone buzzed. Guess what he said. Go ahead. Guess!”

  “That you can’t use the subway?” I ask with a wince.

  I’ve been there and had that hour-long argument, so I understand her anger. Men can be such tools sometimes.

  “That I can’t use the subway!” she yells right over me, ign
oring the look Lena and I share.

  “What’s the big deal, Nat? The subway sucks. All those sweaty bodies are gross,” Lena says with a shrug that only a rich socialite can pull off.

  “I like those sweaty bodies, thank you very much. How else do you expect me to get my daily grope on? And that’s not the point. He’s only doing this because he wants to control me.”

  Been there too, sister. Might as well just shut up and give in. Men, especially rich and powerful men like Greg, Fletcher, and Taylor, simply do not stop until they get what they want. Namely, complete control of the women they—

  “Oh, stop complaining. At least he said he loves you,” I mutter, scowling darkly.

  Seriously, she’s been with Fletch for all of five seconds and the guy’s made his move. At the rate I’m going I’ll need a sledgehammer and pliers to get the words out of Greg. Damned stubborn bastard.

  “Han.”

  I keep muttering to myself as I sip my ginger ale and eye their vodka cranberries with a greedy eye.

  “Son of a bitch, do you know what he sai—”

  “Han!” Lena yells, getting my attention.

  “What?”

  “He hasn’t shown you — that asshole. I warned him.”

  With that she rips her purse open and pulls out a white envelope that I recognize vaguely.

  “Here. Read it.”

  I take the thing and hold it like it’s a snake, giving her a glower that doesn’t quite reach my eyes.

  “If this is what I think it is, I’ll pass, thanks. I—”

  “Oh for God’s sake, just look at it already.”

  I roll my eyes and pull out what I know is her wedding invitation, the very same design I’d haggled with the printers over. What I see though…

  “What the hell is this?”

  “His very stupid, yet romantic declaration of love?” she asks.

  As I look down at the gold scrawl I feel myself burst with joy.

  “That man is such a tool.”